“Global Empathy”: The Case for Literary Fiction in Troubled Times

‘Get the Message Across More Forcefully’

Last week’s AWP conference—the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (February 8-11)—was the usual sea of campus-based students and faculty members, university presses, plus assorted services for publishers and authors.

Early estimates were of some 12,000 people being in attendance. The book fair area of booths and tables was said to have more than 850 outfits represented. And in roughly 550 sessions, attendees heard and debated issues, many of them based in questions of diversity. I wrote an advance piece at Publishing Perspectives on the program’s stated mission of inclusiveness.

Being set as it was in Washington, D.C., however, the political nature of so many of its admirable points of support for writerly egalitarianism was heightened. Some of the attendees participated in demonstrations of their political leanings. I’d guess that very few sessions went by without some mention, pro or con, of the White House administration a few blocks away.

From the hotel, I could see the top of the Washington Monument and the Capitol—they seemed farther apart than in the past.

I was on a panel called Current Trends in Literary Publishing, a session that’s put together and moderated annually at AWP by Jeffrey Lependorf of CLMP, the Community of Magazines and Presses dedicated to literary work and to literary journals in particular. With us were Katie Freeman of Penguin Random House’s Riverhead Books; Dawn Davis of HarperCollins’ Amistad; Literary Hub’s Jonny Diamond; and Michael Reynolds of the independent publisher Europa Editions.

It was Reynolds who, in reminding us that Europa Editions was originally founded in Italy, told the audience that current events are causing houses like his to reflect on why they choose to publish literary fiction. His house has a Turkish author, for example, who’s currently jailed by the regime there, as are many in publishing and journalism. And as the pressures of nationalism increase in many parts of the world, including the States, the Philippines, the United Kingdom, France, what is it about serious fiction that seems to resonate so strongly for so many?

“What about current events,” Reynolds asked, “makes it important to publish literary fiction?

“Do we need to provide more context?” he asked. “Do we need to frame our publishing program differently in order to get the message across more forcefully in this moment?

“In publishing literary fiction,” Reynolds said, “I think we all know that reading fiction—reading fiction in general—is good for our empathy. And I think a publishing program can think about social empathy, and global empathy.”

Several of us on the panel would go on to seize on that phrase Reynolds had given us, “global empathy.” My own key message to the event was very close to his but with that usual provocateur angle: I urged the room of several hundred people to take their belief in literary fiction—and especially in its peculiar capacity and internationalism to promote “global empathy”—and begin to speak more loudly, more proudly about it. I see this political era as a stark opportunity to demonstrate literary’s importance.

And that brings me to my provocation for you today.

Is It Time for Literary To Promote Itself?

Provocations graphic by Liam Walsh

In the past, we’ve had discussions here at Writer Unboxed about literary fiction, of course. We’re a disparate group and many engaged with WU are genre writers, while many others work in and/or revere literary fiction.

There long have been unhelpful perceptions of adversarial relationships between genre writers and literary writers.

While many genre writers will say they feel looked down on by literary writers, the most rational response I normally hear is that it’s not the literary writers who cast aspersions on genre writers (if anyone does), but their readers, some of them caught up in the always-politicized world of academia. And what I hear most frequently from literary writers is that they’d kill for their genre colleagues’ sales.

My own appeal to the literary authors and fans in the room was that we need to get past the delicacies of how we speak of this. For a long time, literary people and publishers have shied from calling literary fiction a genre because it treats such a wide range of subjects and tone and technique that it tends to defy a stable identity. I think it’s time we get over that and simply call it a genre unto itself, albeit a big-church genre that embraces an ecumenical reach.

And in talking of literary’s “global empathy,” Reynolds and the rest of us on the panel weren’t looking to promote explicitly political literary work.

His point—like mine—was that simply writing seriously (which doesn’t exclude humor!) about human experience, as the best literary fiction does, takes us past the provincialism of our own personalities. Literature’s range, that ecumenical respect for all comers, means a chance to stare down nationalism, xenophobia, isolationism: to learn and know each other in the gravitational safety of literary fiction’s curious appeal.

I do think that much good genre work can approach and achieve “global empathy” in many ways. I believe, however, that this is the special effect of the best literary fiction and I’d like to see those who write it, read it, and support it, rise to the stress of these combative times with a firmer stance. I’d like to see some defense of literary.

Global empathy is one of the best hopes each of us has right now to hang onto international understanding interrupted by chaotic governance and worldwide respect challenged by ham-handed, border-busy intimidation. I’ll take up my post where there are no walls. And I think I’ll find a lot of literary fiction people there with me.

How do you feel about this? Can you understand a ‘global empathy’ that’s inherent in the best literary work? And do you feel that the literary fiction community could do a better job of standing up for itself?

Comments

You will, Porter, find a lot of literary fiction writers right there with you. And many writers whose work is more genre or mainstream. What is the composition of my day now, since this new administration? Reading and reading some more. Educating myself concerning his confusing stances and how to fight back. Sometimes it’s with an image (check out the New Yorker today) sometimes it’s with an article from the NY Times or the Washington Post. Then I work on a blog or my novel, imbuing my writing with a passion for medicine, kindness and getting beyond fear to go on living. We have to. Of course at the end of the day I read–mostly novels. Novels that speak to empathy and keep the human spirit alive. Sorry about the length of this and thanks for your post. But what did we have before Twitter and the Internet? We had books and history. As David McCullough would urge EDUCATION, on all levels of society. Unfortunately, there are others out there fighting us and one of them sits right next to the president. But we cannot let up.

“I do think that much good genre work can approach and achieve ‘global empathy’ in many ways.”

Ah. Thanks for that sentence.

I very much like the phrase “global empathy,” and heaven knows we need more of it. Almost resembles having humanity. I wish you and all literary fiction writers Godspeed, Porter. Thanks for lighting the way for your cohorts.

It’s great to be reminded of Shrivers’ cool piece, which I wish I’d actually heard her deliver, lol. It was a scream in lots of ways.

The easy answer (as if I ever choose the easy answer, Jim, lol) is that ain’t what I’m talking about, lol.

The more thorough answer is that when we speak (correctly) of “global empathy,” we don’t mean folks writing about things they don’t know (or dressing like a geisha, as Lionel Shriver mentioned someone doing, was it Katy Perry? — got herself in hot water, lol).

What it really means has more to do with the old saw about how the most universal things are the most specific. Or how the most global things can be understood as local. In other words, “global empathy” doesn’t mean Porter or Jim writing a book about an Amazonian tribe we’ve never met or visited or seen or studied. It means writing something we do know (probably from our own geisha-costume-free backgrounds) that illuminates something of the human condition that a geisha fan in Tokyo could gain from reading.

Needless to say, there are caveats. Athol Fugard, the great white South African playwright, as you likely know, on more than one occasion firmly rejected the idea that as a white citizen he couldn’t write good black South African characters. And he proved it in his work, which is — as theater goes — very literary work, of course. While some might accuse him of appropriating black South African culture for his work, he believed that his immersion in the culture of his (then) very divided nation gave him what he needed to handle it. Some will probably always differ.

But for the most part, this “global empathy” doesn’t even get that close to questions of appropriation, in my opinion. “Write what you know” — while too proscriptive for my taste — is still guidance that can produce something wonderfully communicative across time and space and culture.

I think it has more to do with intent. And this is where I’d like to ask that we quickly table your objections of overly flowery (or simply obtuse) writing in some literary work or charges of “boring!” and “nothing happens!” in literary, which in fact is not true of most of the best literary work. (We’ve hashed this out before.)

If we just set aside those typical complaints and look for intent — the intent of writing in a way that illuminates how a character experiences a cultural truth — we’ve learned something.

You find this, for example, in the remarkable novel (it’s not a long one) by Nobel winner Patrick Modiano, “Paris Nocturne.” http://amzn.to/2lYBP5b

There’s nothing outside Modiano’s normal purview here, but you come away with things about faulty (and accurate) memory, loneliness, obsession, father-son relationships…and you empathize. It’s about getting it, and it’s all tightly anchored to Paris but you’re getting it whether you’re sitting in Iceland or in Greece or in the US of A.

And probably where this might differ from what you’d find in some (not all!) genre work is that revealing the elements of character that evoke these concepts and reactions to them seems, in some way, to be the point. The story actually starts with an almost Hitchcockian event, and turns on a relentless pursuit of what’s happened. But as opposed to how a thriller or suspense piece would handle it, this book researches the event for these other, deeper effects and insights.

It’s too simplistic to put it this way (because it’s actually entertaining) but Modiano isn’t trying to entertain. He’s taking the story that a suspense writer might have enjoyed doing in a different way and leveraging it for cultural (even gender-based) viewpoint, experience. It works on that basis, as a thing that helps me as an American writer learn something about a French soul set adrift — and to empathize because Modiano shows me things I can understand well about what this guy is going through.

I’ve probably made a bit of a mess of it, trying to use this example, but I think it’s a good one. Nothing’s appropriated because Modiano didn’t even “walk across the street,” lol, to borrow something from another culture. Instead, he (and translator Phoebe Weston-Evans) gave me something of another culture’s experience of a contemporary lost soul that I can empathize with. And that helps me think differently about myself and about the French and about people in general.

“…it’s not the literary writers who cast aspersions on genre writers (if anyone does), but their readers…” This grabbed me, Porter, especially because the Big Ugly out there these days seems to be all the finger-pointing and aspersion-casting in general. Any story that can engender empathy and enlighten us with regard to our own humanity is, to me, a story worth reading, and my greatest hope is that a new global humanity will rise up our of the ashes of whatever these divisive times leave burnt in their wake. I’m a believer in the dialectic. One thing will surely lead to another. If writers as a group can embrace Global Empathy among themselves, then I feel hopeful that the world has a shot at sanity. Wonderful post. Thank you!!

I agree with you that the best thing possible is for that “new global humanity (to) rise up” from “these divisive times.” I think it will happen. If anything, I think we cannot wait for things to be reduced to ashes.

Since I posted this piece, the tweet calling the news media “the enemy of the American people” has come out — first with an addendum of “SICK!” which then was amended so that Don Trump could add the handles of more news media he dislikes. As many are pointing out, he now has escalated his commentary to what his fellow Republican, John McCain, is calling “how dictators get started.” I’ll freely and eagerly declare my bias on this as a member of the press for more than three decades, and I realize that we now are moving into a new stage of “the divisive times” that we cannot afford to let diminish what we know as the power and importance of the Fourth Estate—which is why the Constitution places it in its protected state, of course.

In the same way that I see the current threats to freedom of expression as an opportunity for literary fiction — serious “art,” if you will, that illuminates the human condition — I see this assault on journalism as an opportunity to build that “new global humanity” you’re talking about sooner than later. As the hashtag defending journalism has it, the media are #NotTheEnemy. And the unifying truth of that concept can be exactly what’s needed to reaffirm the importance of fact — and the grace of literary art — in the face of the reckless commentary threatening to discredit crucial parts of our ethos.

This “stress test,” as one analyst has called it, will do us good in the long run, and I appreciate your receptivity to my comments and your fine interest in a better future. See you there.

Thanks for addressing this topic, Porter. I love the phrase global empathy! Our empathy gets a workout whenever we read genre or literary fiction or some nonfiction (biography, memoir)–anything that makes us experience the world as another person.

I don’t think literary fiction with its realism can claim exclusive rights as an empathy-generator. Genre fiction has some advantages over literary fiction in this endeavor, such as being able to displace current issues into an alternate world, making it easier for readers to set aside their prejudices and preconceptions (The Handmaid’s Tale, Harry Potter, LOTR). Mysteries and crime novels increase our understanding of the nuances of good and evil. Romance can show us how easy it is to misunderstand another person’s heart.

Although it’s not the only path to empathy, I’d love to see literary fiction shake off the reputation of being hard to read and/or for academics only. Book clubs have helped here by increasing popular enjoyment of literary fiction.

Thanks so much for your good comment — I very much like your point about book clubs that are supportive of literary fiction. I think our clubs have a particular capacity in this regard and I’m grateful when they act on that and choose serious work as the focal readings of their activities.

I agree with you that literary doesn’t have an exclusive hold on empathically eloquent work. (Of those you rightly note, in fact, I consider Atwood to be working in literary in ‘Handmaid’s Tale’ and some of her other works.)

And the more writings that give us a glimpse of “global empathy,” the better, whether they lie squarely in what’s classified as literary or not.

My real point is that this is an opportunity for literary fiction that we don’t see as often as I wish we did, and I’d really like to see people who appreciate literary step up and, as you say, “shake off the reputation” that has so badly hobbled it in our entertainment-drenched society.

Hmmm. You know, today I’m viewing literary and genre fiction differently than the last time I had opportunity to discuss it – probably in response to a post by you! But, anyway, I guess I have always thought of Literary fiction to be a genre in and of itself, and that might be why I always got a little rankled with the idea that people considered it “more serious” writing.

I never read much literary because I read to relax and not think about the heavier topics in life. For me, reading is such an immersive experience that when I read those literary stories I can become depressed for days. Or maybe I might be uplifted at the end of the story, but I hate crying at movies and I hate crying when reading books. I choose to read mysteries or adventure, fantasy, etc.. because it enables to me get away from the reality of daily life, and all the issues we’re having right now globally. While the stories address similar themes and topics, it’s not so…well…obvious, somehow.

So, I guess I’m agreeing with you now. Literary has it’s own burden to bear. As a form it is tasked with providing a window into those dark areas that I, at least, don’t care to go as a reader, or a writer. But it’s important that someone does, and it’s important that writers continue to shine a light into the dark recesses of humanity. Yes, all writing should do that, but literary has the expectation to do so.

You’re saying this very, very well. And I especially appreciate your willingness to move a bit on how you see literary work (though I don’t need to make you cry through it — we’ll find you some of the lighter stuff! lol).

(I’ve thought of it as a genre, too, and have wished that more in the field were willing to just get past their hair-splitting on this. Calling it “the non-genre” has been utterly useless, lol.)

I do think that literary “has its own burden,” as you say, and that it falls to those of us who know it and appreciate it to take it upon ourselves to start promoting and supporting it better than in the past. Letting entertainment overrun us isn’t an option (though I certainly have moments, as you do, when escapism sounds a lot better than grappling with knotty issues).

Porter– When it comes to empathy, genre isn’t the issue. Empathy is the capacity to tame one’s self-involvement and ego, to the degree it’s possible to have an honest sense of others’ experience. Of course the key word is “honest” as opposed to “smug.” When writers care enough about their characters to make them nuanced and complex–to ring true–those writers are creating works that may actually serve to more fully develop in readers a sense of empathy. This can happen–or not happen–in genre and well as literary fiction.

What I’m saying is that there is too good a chance (for my liking) that genre fiction has demonstrated this capacity to help “develop in readers a sense of empathy” that literary fiction has. And that’s not because literary isn’t doing it. I think it’s doing this more frequently than much genre work because entertainment is less frequently a goal of the literary writer than of the genre writer. Where I fault literary (and those who deride it) is in not making it clear to the world that it offers this capability to develop empathy in readers — basically to get over itself, stop buying its critics’ denigration of it as precious or boring or plotless or esoteric — and begin promoting itself for its special capacities in terms of human enrichment.